


Snowstorm

by IFrozeYourCookie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Confused Sherlock, F/M, Fluff, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Requited Love, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:34:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IFrozeYourCookie/pseuds/IFrozeYourCookie
Summary: Sherlock was on a case that would require a simple stakeout but in the midst of it, he was stuck in the middle of a snowstorm which had already receded but put Sherlock in a tough spot, freezing in the cold. He did see a house nearby that was occupied, but he also knew who was in there. John, and his daughter Rosie. He was sure John wouldn't want to see him, not especially after everything-Mary's death and Eurus' game. He was wrathful towards Sherlock, but he needed the shelter or else he'd die. With every ounce of effort he had in him, he tried to make his way to the door and knocked forcefully on the door.





	Snowstorm

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a fic also posted here in Ao3 but I read that way back last year so I can't credit it properly as I don't remember the title nor the writer. Please comment whoever's work this seemed similar with so I can credit them.

 

   He hated it when the weather forecast had a completely different prediction that his, but maybe this time he was rather regretful that he didn't take heed of it. Because now, he's freezing in his car in the middle of a stakeout. The car was stuck a while back when he was stalking his suspect but if he needed to chase him again, he'd need to wait until he had help from anyone passing by but the next person might pass by by the time he froze to death, so he looked over to the houses and spotted one that was still lit.  _Shelter, warmth, protection_. But, he also recognized the owner of the house. 

   He'd had to risk it, because he needed to stay alive. Slowly, while clutching onto himself in hope it would help warm up, he made his way to the wooden door and knocked on the door loudly-or rather banging on it. After a few seconds, he could hear someone working on the locks of the door and ocean blue eyes peeked from the gap between door and the frame before widen in shock (and maybe horror).   
   "Christ, Sherlock. What are you doing here?" John sounded very annoyed and worried, but more angry at him. Sherlock just pointed at the car he drove in that was stuck in the snow and John let him in the house which was thankfully warmer than the outside.  
   "John, I know this is sudden but I had to find shelter somehow and the other house was vacant, or unwelcoming,"  
   "Just go to the room at the back. There's spare clothes there and I'll make some tea to warm you up," John said and walked away to the kitchen. From a distance, he could hear Rosie playing with her toys, evident from the sound of squeaks and rattles. He wanted to check on her, just to say hello, but he was sure if he did just so, he'd be kicked out in a split second.  _I'm unwelcomed. He only let me in because I was in risk of dying,_ he reminded himself. He was nothing to John at that moment, but just a burden of a time.

   Making his way through the hallway towards the room at the back, he noticed the pictures hanging on the wall. Family portraits, memorable pictures with friends, there's one with Mike Stamford and another with Lestrade, or even Rosie's godmothers. He doesn't know the others.  _None of it have me in it._  There were pictures of the three Watsons with a newer version next to it that didn't have Mary in it. Looking forward, he saw a bigger frame with Mary's picture painted with monochromatic colours, with text underneath which he didn't bother reading because that would've hurt, considering he was involved in causing her depart from this world.

   He reached the door at the end of the memory hallway and pushed the door open. It was clearly a spare bedroom, barely used. Judging from the stuff left there, it must be where Harry would be sleeping in when she visits her little brother. He took in all the information of the room and he went to the mirror only to be shocked at how exhausted he looked like. The darkness under his eyes were visible, the flush of pink on his cheeks from the cold and the shadowy depth of his cheekbone was clearly showing how badly he took care of himself. He smoothed out his frizzy hair and at that moment glanced at a worn out paper on the table.  _A photograph_. He turned it around and see a picture of himself-a candid photo of him smiling. He remembered that moment when John took out his phone to take a picture of the scene but maybe he accidentally pressed the snap button and captured his smile instead. 

   Having to see a worn out picture of him in the back of the room, a room rarely entered by anyone at all, was honestly heartbreaking. John didn't want to be reminded of him but here he was, post-snowstorm, freezing and seeking for shelter. Slowly, and heavily, he made his way to the bed while still holding onto that piece of photograph. Maybe he should do John a favour and throw that picture out later, or throw it in the fireplace on his way out. Just rid of his existence from John's life that he had ruined countless of times. He put down the picture to change his clothes to a more comfortable and warmer ones in the wardrobe. 

   When he finished settling with himself, he sat back down at the bed and picked up the picture again, only to notice a faded out writing at the back of it that looked like a multiple attempt of rubbing the note away but still readable nevertheless.  
    _People tend to assume Sherlock was a heartless machine, but in reality he was one of the most human human being I know. He just doesn't show that to everyone, and making sure people see him as a sociopath anyway. It's a shame. People would have liked him more._

   At that exact moment he reached the end of the sentence, he heard the door creaked open and John entered with a hot cup of tea. The expression on John's face was obvious that he was holding in every single venom he had to offer to Sherlock.  
   "John, I-"  
   "Why are you here?" he cut Sherlock midway, and put the cup of tea on the table right next to the door.  
   "I was on a case, and the snowstorm got in the way,"  
   "Why is it that you never care about your well-being?" he chuckled sarcastically. "The work always comes first for you,"   
   "The work doesn't come first," he pressed each word with emphasis.

   "It bloody well does. You're out here, in the middle of the cold after a snowstorm, for a case! You don't give a damn about your life, you don't care about anyone else's life either. It's always about how clever you are and how you can prove it since the first day we met! You're the centre of a hurricane-everything revolves around you and anything that comes close to you would be damned and damaged. You are cold and heartless, 'caring is not an advantage' and 'sentiment is a chemical defect' as you so poetically put it when the need arose. Murdering people in cold blood because they've outsmarted you and taking drugs because it was fun and 'heighten your thoughts processes'," Sherlock was honestly shocked at the sudden outburst, although he had expected John to get angry at him but he hadn't expected to be ripped apart. He looked away from John while he proceeded with his tirade.

   "Donovan was right, I should've stayed away from you since the first day and not be stupid enough to be pulled in, because all it ever did was bring me utter misery. Now tell me, you  _freak_ , did you bring along an enemy behind you to come and kidnap me and my daughter for hostage? Because that's your favourite way to be contacted by your enemies, wasn't it?" he hissed every word with seething pain and anger, that it took him a while to realize the tense in Sherlock's body, and the blank stare towards the piece of photograph in his hands that he had gripped hard at the sides as a sign of containing or holding back the hurt and the tears threatening to spill.

   "What comes first isn't my life anymore," he mumbled breathlessly as the grip on the photograph loosen just a bit.  _The note was just a friendly lie. Nothing was to be believed anyway because he even regretted writing it._ "Thank you for the clothes and tea. I'll leave as soon as I can, and stay out of your life," he said with a low but cold voice, keeping his head low.  
   "Wait, Sherlock, you can't leave  _now_ -"  
   "Get out," his tone leaves no room for arguement, and so John closed the bedroom door, and leaned on it. He covered his face with the palm of his hands while sliding down the door to sit against the door. He was guilt ridden. Sherlock was indeed an arsehole but he didn't deserve all the poison he spilled just now. From inside the room, he could hear Sherlock's shaky breaths and muffled sobs just for a few moments and he was sure Sherlock was trying to straighten himself up and maintain a casual persona. He could hear some movements from inside the room, something like the flap of the heavy Belstaff coat he had always heard back then when Sherlock was ready to go out, and then he heard the clink of the teacup against the coaster and some... slow shrieking of metal being rubbed against one another.

   It took him a while to finally understand what the sound was, and when it finally dawned on him, he rushed up and pushed the door open, first to have cold air against his face, and then to notice the window was wide open. He glanced to his side to see the tea was only half drunk, and the crumpled up photograph underneath it with a scrawny and shaky handwriting on it saying 'I'm sorry'.  _Shit, Sherlock._  If he'd let Sherlock just run away now, he wouldn't know when else he'd see the man. He wouldn't know when else he could make it up to him anymore. If he'd run out to find Sherlock now, Rosie would be left unattended, so he tried ringing his phone but it was unsurprisingly a fruitless attempt. He ran to the door, in hope to at least see a silhouette of Sherlock. His dark hair and clothes had made it easier to spot him in the white of snow.

   Sherlock was standing near his house, still, waiting for something while smoking.  
   "Sherlock, please come back in. You'll freeze,"  
   "I thought I was supposed to not care about my life," he took a long drag of his cigarette while hugging himself with his free hand.  
   "For fucks sake, just get back in,"  
   "I'm waiting for Mycroft to get me. I'm dropping the case," he turned to John and looked at him up and down. "It's a little too close to inconveniences," he diverted his sight to the empty view, and as if on cue, the recognizable black car pulled up in front of him.  
   "Sherlock?"  
   "Go back to Rosie, John,"  
   "Will you be okay?"  
   "Don't pretend like you care, suddenly. Just go," he got in the car and glanced back at John for a split second before insisting the driver to drive away quickly.  _Both of them are such idiots. When one cares, the other would be too hurt to see that. They're just two halves that were yet to know how to properly communicate with each other._ He had the right to push John away, but John also have the right to fix things. Both of them just needed time to make room for apologies in the future. He's going to try.

**Author's Note:**

> The ending may be a bit wacky, because by the last few paragraphs, I couldn't keep my eyes open but have the need to finish it anyway but I hope you guys like it anyway


End file.
